Raspberries and Rainbows

Some days you delude yourself. Some days, you'd fight tooth and nail, and strike hard to seek it. Black, white and grey; after dedicating much more than colours; and after living under a cloud, you choose to finally give in.

You discover it in the lyrics your sentiments decide to play. You look it in the touch of your mother’s hand loving reassuring your nerves. You hear it in the alternate rhythm of the black and white keys. You seek it in the eyes of the child. You find it in the unspoken words of your lover. You unearth it in the cryptic clues of a poem. You stumble upon it between the lines. You string it together when you try connecting the dots. You search for it when you decide to face the mirror to face yourself. You will discover it in the words of a friend who never exactly owed it to you anyway. To contemplate, retrospect and elaborate upon those thoughts.

The truth lashes out in its form like the hard rain. But you rather stray away into the wild today. You rather cleanse yourself in the moonlight tonight. The truth isn't what you were searching for tonight. You crave for solace. The humble solace. Probably.

The truth seeks you in its glory. But you were never the brave heart who was out to seek the truth.

Probably the truth is the price you have to pay.

How to be lonely?

Become an introvert and tell yourself there is nothing you can do to change this. Maintain a steely countenance. Tell yourself you’re an introvert. Use it as a covert to hide your inability to initiate a conversation or build relationships.

Fall for the one who was never your type. Try to make things work. Quit making it work. Look around. End your time with him. Live on borrowed time. End your relationship.

Read between the lines. Try to encrypt every word, statement that has been showered, shared on/to you.

Get touchy and sentimental when people push you for a reaction.  Pull away, cry inconsolably, weep like a baby. Do what you must, so that people expect you to display your sentiments on a screen-projecter.

Fall for an addiction; get rid of it by becoming a prey to addiction. Get your friends to wean you off your dependence. But it won’t go away, there’s too much of you damaged for words to do any good, heal you is a distant ambition.

Become a cynic. Lead on to believe that everyone talks to you to fulfill their ulterior motive. Lead on to believe this is your superpower. Believe compliments are meant to mock you at a random moment and they can probably see through your flagellating self-esteem. Continue being bitter about your last relationship.

Believe when someone says they’d be there for you. Believe when they say they don’t believe in forever. Share details of our life to this person, since bonding, always strengthened relationships. And leave your worst to fate.

Get into a relationship. Delude yourself about the relationship. Find reasons to nitpick each other when the time is wrong. Avoid confrontations when asked about the same.

Find yourself too indolent to talk every time you find yourself at the possibility of starting a friendship. Ignore the person who seems to find you interesting. Shut all forms of contact. Smile too much to let them know they’re indulging in a series of fleeting monologues. Use monosyllables. Use your headphones.

Get someone to be dependent on you. Use your power to use him/her according to your whims and fancies.

Avoid phone calls. Excuse yourself from night outs. Shun the spotlight when it is on you. Keep away from affections of any kind. Because the only way to conquer the world was to be a detached prick who’d spend the nights watching fluffy romantic movies.

Be yourself.

Befriend fellow introverts & believe that introversion is the new mysterious, is the new way to express yourself.

Him

His calm demeanor assures you striking a conversation with him is probably worth it. The faint scar on his eyebrow bears witness to the fact that he was rambunctious as a kid; he's had his age of outburst and impulses.

He isn’t the guy who sits across the bar and finds ways to impress you. He is the one makes himself comfortable on a sofa and sinks in a book. He isn't trying to be charming; and that's what sets him apart.

His eyes appear cold and steely at first, oblivious to the crowd around him. His mundane glasses schemingly shield the warmth in his eyes. But you know him well, and you'd realize the look is just a facade, an appearance to keep people at bay. You'd find a string of red-veined strings tied across his wrist, reminding you this is his devised method to keep in touch with traditions and, for emotional reasons. His banalities seem so trivial, but a memory to cherish when he makes you a part of it. His laugh, booming with such joy, you'd laugh with him; at him.

His cropped hair reminds you of the archetypical male precedence — he's too lazy to visit the barber frequently. But you're not complaining; not as yet.

His dimple across his right cheek that breezily appears through conversations is your reward that he appreciates your company. His conversations remind you that we haven't lost the good guys to the Waser River as yet.

The party has ended. The bar is shutting shop. It's time to go. The niceties are exchanged. You should probably leave. But not before you find a way to get back in touch with him.

After all, you want him to be more than a fading memory.

55 Word Story | Books

"....She’s the rhythm to my otherwise tone-deaf voice. This book is dedicated to Saira, my wife.” 

Lies. This book is a memory of him and me. 

He clasped his hands as he noticed him breathing each of these words to scribes. 

He knew there were ways to get famous. He realized one of them today.

55 Word Story | Serendipity

A minute is all that takes to find out the truth. Today, it seemed like she waited for an eternity.

Negative.

Hello again, post-coital pillow talks. 

Hello again, Old Monk + random guy from bar.

What she didn't know was, her life was going to change in exactly three hours from now.

*door bell*

65 Word Story | Dream

Dreams peep out of a keyhole every time she tries to shut the doors of reality.

Her mutilated dreams. Her scattered reality.

She imagines to set herself free. Till then she continues to dream.

She lives in a world of sleepless dreams, she dreams in a world of sleep.

She wishes, she could live each of those dreams, as she lives in her dreamless sleep. 

Put your cuss words to good use

If the trolls over the internet were to be taken seriously, one would certainly belive cussing never did you any good. Most of us would agree, using profanity magically makes us feel better about the situation for a few moments. Twitter, the micro-blogging website, is abuzz with new ideas is, now witness to @Swearbox.

B****, Y U NO Cuss?

The Charity Swearbox, (@Swearbox) is a positively minded venture that provides Twitter users a way to right their verbal wrong.  Founded by James Dow (@jamesscdow), Jay Gelardi (@jaylardi), and Rameet Chawla (@ramneet), Charity Swearbox was initiated in May 2010 with a simple motive to make a difference in the society through simple measures. “Jay is a particularly foul mouthed young man and I believe the idea came to him initially when thinking about just what to do with all his tweets with swear words in”, claims Dow. The duo came up with the idea while working together at Agency Republic in London. Dow finally contacted Ramneet Chawla (@ramneet) in New York City who seemed interested by this idea who helped developing this website.

Your online swear-box creator: James Dow,
one of the founders of  Charity Swearbox

“We both left the agency, I became a freelancer and he (Gelardi) moved to Australia. I developed the idea further in his absence, which included wire framing and working our user’s journeys” explains Dow. “After I had planned it all out on paper I worked with a friend of mine, Bobby Evans who runs Telegramme, a talented Illustration and Design Studio. He helped me create a brand look and design the site as you see it now. We always wanted to focus on the good deed rather than the swear words themselves.” 

By signing up for SwearBox, users pledge to donate £1 (about $1.55) or any other amount they wish to donate. The site tracks your swear in tweets and tells you cuss words your use the most. At, the end of each week, they drop you a mail asking you to pay up, via PayPal. The site doesn’t take itself seriously, since it encourages its users to tweet swear words according increase donations.

SwearJar, which is nested under the 50-50 project, focuses its efforts to improve the famine conditions in East Africa. According to UN reports, a child dies every six minutes in East Africa with 12 million people at risk.

Dow adds that it is early days for the project, since the website has just started off. They team plans to add more charities very soon and hope that will spur on more donations. Many users have paid up and it is I think it’s important we keep working on maximising the amount of people the revisit the site and donate.

On a given day, the site is able to contribute around $ 400- $ 500 and has collected $16208.00 so far. 

When asked Jay Maniyar (@jayblawgs), a 24-year-old what he thought about this idea, “This is a creative way of getting people to not fret upon losing some money. For a good cause. I hope Twitters diverse audience responds to such a scheme.”

Till then, armchair critics can troll the internet, cuss anonymously and safe in the knowledge that it is for a good cause. Effin’ marvellous, anyone?

The Other Woman | Chapter Five

So last night, last night was just about sex.  Nothing more than sex. In these two months of time we spent knowing each other. I guess the message nullifies the ‘relationship’ to null.

If that is what he wanted to make it clear that the night was great, he wouldn’t even want to mention it, but  maybe just how I am going to look at it. His action just revealed his insecurities.

I wish it was totally legal for a woman to castrate a man who puts her though this grief. That wretched son of a !

I knew he lied all along about us everytime he flashed his dimples. The lines around his eyes always creased. But his eyes never managed to smile. I should have seen it coming, all this while.

Leave aside these emotions, let them be unattended. Things will settle down when you put them on the back-burner.

No. Sort it right here till you have a grasp on what is going on, for the sake of your sanity.

All it takes is a moment for you to start loathing yourself.

Today every positive feeling I had for the man has fled away for me to notice the flaws in him. Delusions were my reality; an illusion to reflect the lies.

I agree; we didn’t have anything serious going on. I’d like to believe that we were a little more that flinging ourselves at each other when we got a room. We weren’t madly in love with each other; neither did we imagine ourselves happily walking together by the beach at sunset.

But there was something more than us staying the night; discussing our dreams and hopes till six in the morning.  

Maybe it was my fault. I tried to play cool from the start when his actions started to offend me. Maybe I was trying too hard to please him.

It is too mainstream to accept feelings so each other, because you are supposed to be unaffected with anything that has got to do with emotions and attachment. Yes, because, do what we may, feelings ain’t ever supposed to come to the forefront?

We dated for two months and spent most of our waking time together. Does that imply we were two souls who had nothing to do but just fuck each other in our free time?

Since we do not have a label to our relationship, I am assumed to be his whore? Since that’s what society perceives it as.

Well, what actually happened is that, in these two months, we spent too much time together. I gave into my emotions, and I found myself snuggling next to him. Everything always transcends into sex for him.

A little respect and maybe, a little rock in the balls to accept that I mean something to him that is all I expected from him.

            To pacify the lonely nights, I started finding love in the wrong place. In him.

I will probably emulate him and become a splinter of what he is. Maybe even poke fun at his tragedies.

You hate a person more when you can see though them. Though their masks and veils. Through their smiles and disguise.

Fuck. What I should probably do is dump him. Play his own game; be the ice-queen and then leave him to the pits.

I want him, not need him. I want to be loved by him. But only till I find a man who gives me the respect I deserve. I wish he realises I won't be with him for long. I’ll go on with the show.   Maybe I am playing his own game, and it makes me just as lowly as him. Maybe I have learnt my lessons. 

The day I stop taking him seriously, will be the day I learn to live for myself. The day I will be able to accept the fact that I am a solitary traveller, will be the day I start loving myself a little more.

These secret societies living inside the crevices of my head will help me get through this.

It pays much to date a dickwad.

I am his last contact with reality. His malevolence will become a reason for my vengefulness. His assholiness will become my silent weapon.

Maybe even write a book about his douchebaggery,  turn him into prose and make millions out of it.  

The Other Woman | Chapter Four

Two months since I decided to use women and “mutually part” ways when I'm done trampling with their aura.  Decoding their mystery, a mystery that never was any attached to them.

Never a bad name on me, I’m the heartbroken kid. Of course the charmers always turn out to be the biggest dickwads.

The ex decided to leave because she never thought me to be commitment material and she reached for the door. Like that. Just like that. Though she still is very much a part of me. My best days with her are now deemed to be her worst.

My best days with her are now doomed to be her worst.

The prodding, waiting, pillow talk has finally done her in. I always make sure the persuasion works. Oh how it works! Like sweet poison running through her veins. The plan is easy. Lead a woman on, pretend that you are falling for her, reveal something emotional about yourself, make her feel that you are comfortable sharing intimate details about yourself. Make her realize you have your flaws but you too are human enough to be loved. The emotional ramblings wire her brain to be emphatic towards me.

All this makes it so much easier for her to love me. Such is the spell of such cacophonic weave of words.

Most women like men with intellect, humour and maturity. Sapiosexual, she claims.

Know a woman’s checklist, and slowly personify each of these traits. Make her realize she has met THAT guy from the checklist. That’s just how easy it is so make them swing by our side.

I am the man with the charcoal heart.

I lure her by toying with her emotions. I seek gratification by watching her writhe her in pain. It awakens the sadist in me to watch her in distress, and watch her effortlessly conceal her disappointment; act concerned and nonchalant as she tried to counsel me. While in reality, she was burning of insecurity and jealously. That lady has a lot to learn.  

Ever since then, waiting, prodding, giving her the security she needs and making her feel special has finally done her in. That is the golden rule; be an ass only after you have managed to make her fall for you.

A few kind words from me alters the perception of her reality. My state of mind gives her a moment to look forward to. I talk about how happy she makes me, I whisper sweet nothings to her and in exchange I get her to get much more comfortable with me between the sheets.  

It’s her naivety that I want to rupture. I want this relationship, her swan song, to turn into a quiet reflection. I am protective of her in a very unconventional way.

Meet. Date. Commit. Break-up. Rinse. Repeat. Seems legit to me, maybe convenient too.

That is the golden rule; be an ass only after you have managed to make her fall for you. 

         

The Other Woman | Chapter Three

Last night. What happened last night? Old Monk smokes and sex happened. Sex with the whore happened. Heh.

Drinks and sex go like rhythm and music together. Brain damage has happened. Ughh… these hazy frequencies of thought.

She is probably asleep. Asleep from the flash of vanilla stars and twinkling sparks I gave her in that state of bliss. They don’t call it slow death for nothing.

There is a world I live in; a world inside my head. A pandemoniac world buzzing with thoughts inside my mind. A cavity where it is perfectly normal to experience epiphanies amidst the chaotic mood swings.

I believe I have successfully managed to make her my whore. My modest demi-mondaine. I guess she wants to play with danger. Cut through the red tape. I believe she wants to be my saviour. My moonlight by the night.

A conversation at the bar and exchange of digits later, the next thing I know is I was dancing my way into her pants. How could she not understand? This illusion of attachment is such a delusional beauty. She sees the man who isn’t there. A man who never was there. Or maybe I played my part well, I mean, how else can I tell her that I was always only interested in her vayjayjay?

Two months since I have been putting on this marshmallow-but devious at time mask, and it works, just like a witch’s portion. My theory and her reality are poles apart.

And I wouldn't let anyone disrupt my hatred for the scheme of relationships and thoughts. 

The Other Woman | Chapter Two

On such charcoal nights, the ash flickers, his memory slowly fades away with the drag of smoke. In the night, there is something soothing about chaos; there is something chaotic about silence.

I wake up at 3 in the afternoon with a heavy head not knowing if these soliloquies even paused for a sleeping moment. A headache caused by dreams speeding at a millions thoughts per second. The headache caused because the thoughts in my head refuse to rest.

Thanks to my career in advertising, my days and nights are one. Sometimes, the day puts on its yellow cloak; sometimes the night bares its soul like the full moon.

My BlackBerry beeps reminding me of a queue of mails slowly piling up. I notice a mail from him. The subject: ‘Last Night was great.’ An empty message greets me in the email.

Well, Nights are what I am to him then. I wanted to retort with a million abuses in tow. The man could be an object of my wrath if I desired it. 

Rage aside, I know I have to sort it out. Sooner or later. “Later,” I decided. Coward, my mind points and laughs at me.

My phone buzzes to Violet Hill who could it be other than the friend who has known me since I believed in tooth fairies. “I am engaged,” she shrieks with joy as she announces her engagement to her boyfriend of a year who had proposed to her last night over wine and food.

The two met at a party, and hit it off instantly. A week and a date later, they have been together for the last year. Her happy ending gives me a little hope. Her happy ending will hopefully signal my new beginning.

Despair, now turns into jealousy. 

We choose to meet at 7 in the evening, which gives me enough time to buy her a gift and practise my best smile in front of the mirror.

We check-in at Hard Rock Café, take one of the corner tables and order our Old Monks for the evening. 

As expected, the topic drifts to the recent happenings in my life. I smile and pretend like everything’s alright. A woman like me, we don’t kiss and tell. Yes, I am traditional that way.

She tells me what it like is to love a guy like him; I gently withdraw my burnt fingers. Falling in and out of love, both are just as difficult, I want to quip in defence. 

Today, she needn’t hear that; this is her day. A day that a woman imagines to be her special day right from the time she is takes a liking for romantic movies.

But today, we speak about love and all the things that come attached with it.

The Other Woman | Chapter One

The sunlight beams through the curtains painting the white walls a shade of sunshine yellow. The rays passing though the curtain create a kaleidoscope of light, making my room resemble a lit lantern. Fireflies living on the ephemeral light I think to myself as I lie happily in my bed imbibing every joule of energy and happiness that I can find.

This day gives me a new reason to reflect and turn my wrongs into right.

There. There, I say to myself. This constant bickering need to go for the poetic overkill leads to a buzzkill.

The alarm clock reminds me it is 6.30 in the morning. Why does the clock remind me to be awake when I already am? Or maybe I am not.

He is still in la-la land. I notice his curly mop of hair, his most striking feature that makes him look attractive yet child-like even when he lies here in a slumber. He lies here next to me. And I lie next to him with a million thought-bubbles in mind. Thoughts about him throb in my head, for every single moment of my waking life. These thoughts make an appearance in motion, in a sequence; in flashbacks.

There is a perception tied up with being in a new woman in a man’s life. When you date a guy who is a practical mess, you are a little guide of shining light for him. How are you supposed to be his messiah anyway? When you are nothing but a nomad yourself? In search of something that may not exist. Or it may. In utopia.

He coos about me being one of the things that make him happy, but sometimes he won’t give me a reason to feel the same. Sometimes his words seem forced, because he knows that I live for these validations. Sometimes, his validations seem unconvincing to me. For that elusive peace of mind.

How do you react when he says that the things I do unintentionally remind him of her?

She was the ‘most amazing woman’ he had ever met. Apparently. I think that tag should pass onto me. Why not?

When you are told about his past, you never really know how to react. The gong of jealousy hits you in the throat, and in the head, as he continues to talk about her. If you vocalize that his statements are turning you off, you are no sport. Insecurity, these Martians have named it.

As a matter of fact, I did tell him my opinions.

“You are thinking too much,” he retorted. And then wham! The man will close in on me. “I need to stop thinking about her,” he claims. “Or I won’t be able to give myself in this relationship.”

Snap. This is how he distances himself from me.

Feelings are dangerous things that should never be spoken about. Positively, he does teach me things about myself. I decide to maintain an icy cold conduct with him. But no. He then needs to be my knight in shining armour and show the sweeping side in him. The reason why I fell for him. I once again find myself happily tingling with his attention.

I reassure myself that everything is fine. It is just the over-thinking. My mind’s mechanism sends me into over-drive.

She makes an appearance again. “She was just another girl in your life.” I speak in a reassuring cadence, secretly begging him to spend time with me this very moment; instead of being caged in the corridors of the past. Then I put on a confidant face and offer him advice which I wish he would use.

His next woman might very well say the same thing about me. My mind decides to let me find peace only when I die.

Maybe I should drop a not-so-subtle hint that I too have feelings. Yes, I know I am safe in this relationship. We are magic when we are together. Like paper to fire.

Of course, he doesn’t mean to hurt me. He likes to keep communication channels open in this ‘whatever-it-is-that-we-have’ stage.

Doesn’t our relationship need a label? Heck, who came up with this labeling business anyway? We were never the conventional ones.

He needs her. I need him. Maybe I even want him.

These talks put him off. Maybe I shouldn’t reveal these feelings to you.

Wait a second. What am I afraid of? Hurting his feelings or mine? Or just losing out on whatever precious time we may have together? Or the fear that I may end up alone with a goldfish and a cat for company?

Maybe I’m just very vulnerable right now. Maybe my mind is on a tripkill.

I wanted to be your special somebody.

Delusions. That’s all that is left of us.

I hope. No, I am sure that one day things will be good. Just like how it was. Not too long ago.

I am his other woman.

           And no. It doesn't pay much to be an emotional slut.